this is where we stand
by How Clever of You
Summary: Eighteen years and four hours ago he had been standing in one of the rooms at the church, pacing. / angst concerning Greg and his ex-wife. No spoilers; a bit of a reference to "You Think You Know Someone."


**So I found this brilliant prompt generator, and it gave me "a family member - another anniversary alone." So, naturally, I thought of Greg. (Sorry, Sarge.) Anyway, as far as I know, they haven't named his ex, yet, on the show. I also gave her a basic physical description (I imagine she's got Dean's color brown hair), but I'm probably way off. It'll probably be that her name is, like, Chiquita Yaszdale Virginia or something, and she has purple hair and piercings and lives off of wine and I'll be wrong for assuming and you will all laugh and point. (Please don't!)**

**I'm still emotional from watching Fault Lines for the second time, and I apologize for the rambling above. Enjoy!**

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><p>Eighteen years and four hours ago he had been standing in one of the rooms at the church, pacing. His tie was too tight and the room was too hot and no, he was not panicking. His best man, Jeff, was sitting on one of the couches, picking at his nails, completely unconcerned that his closest friend was breaking down right in front of him.<p>

"That Ed guy didn't come, did he?" He ducked down to look in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair.

"First, you look fine. She's not going to leave you at the altar because of your hair. Second" – Jeff sat up straighter to fix his pant leg – "'that Ed guy' happens to be a team member of mine. You told me I could invite a friend, and the only friend that we don't share is him."

Greg exhaled.

"When Kelly threw that dinner party back in January, you seemed to like him. I don't get it."

"That's because he was in a steady relationship." Greg licked his finger and tried to smooth down a cowlick. "And now he's flirting with Wendy, and it's my wedding day." He paused. "I'm getting married."

Jeff sighed and stood, adjusting his cufflinks as he went to stand next to Greg. "He's not flirting with Wendy. He's crazy in love with this girl Sophie. If you heard him talk about her…" He shook his head, smiling. "You're just nervous. That's natural. It's how I felt when I was in your shoes. Of course, that was back _before_ I was in homicide _and _SRU…"

"Oof," Greg said. "You're making me feel old here, buddy."

There was no pat on his back, though, because he wasn't standing in St. Catherine's. He was sitting in the dark of his living room, a glass of ginger ale in his hand (because he hasn't been able to touch alcohol without the overwhelming feelings of guilt and grief for at least nine, nine and a half years).

He remembered how beautiful Wendy had look, walking down the aisle. Her hair was soft and brown, and he could practically feel it between his fingers again, stroking it as she laughed into his mouth. Her delicate face was covered by a veil, one that he would lift up and out of the way, leaving only their _I do_'s between them. Her fingers were smooth and manicured, ready to hold the ring that he had saved up for months to buy. He could see that smile again, pink lipstick and white teeth and love, so much love.

He hadn't seen that mouth in ten years. The pictures had disappeared from the walls and the books; the frames had been taken down from the mantle and the bedside table was left empty, save for a lone picture of Dean, frozen in time, a month before he had been whisked off to Dallas. A month before Hailey happened, a month before the bottle became his best friend and worst enemy.

There was champagne at the wedding, of course, but Wendy didn't care for it. She snuck beers in under her huge dress, despite her mother's reminders that _brides drink bubbly, my dear; beer is a man's drink. _She and Greg couldn't escape, so she came up with a solution: dropping napkins on the floor was a perfectly acceptable way to stealthily pour herself a flute full. She was tipsy by her third glass, all giggly, her breath warm against the shoulder of Greg's jacket.

They were both so happy then. Her in his arms, twirling around the dance floor; and then her watching him over her father's shoulder, beaming, as if promising a lifetime of happiness just by a flash of her teeth. He remembered how her hand felt in his as they finally, finally left, slipping away from the commotion and into the limousine. Laughter turned into hiccups and hiccups turned into shy, just-married kisses.

They did not hit the seven year itch. They skated right past that, caught up in the destruction trailing behind their five year old son. Greg did meet Jose Cuervo, though, and Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and John Dewar (and his Sons) soon joined in the festivities. He was good at keeping it secret, at first, hiding behind a smile and haunted eyes.

Then the nightmares got worse and he was taking midnight trips to the bar, and Wendy was afraid, unhappy, unappreciated. It came to him being drunk more than he was sober, and her crying more than smiling. His memory started to fade. Was Dean's parent-teacher conference tomorrow or last week? Were Wendy's parents visiting or did they decide to go to her brother's instead? Was he picking up milk or had she gotten it herself?

Greg put the glass down and flexed his fingers. He could feel that gun again. He saw the blood on the princess poster, the little girl crouched underneath the bed. He saw the bottle in his hand, felt it on his lips – he saw the empty bed, felt the unnatural quiet of the house. The tears on his face, the alcohol in his throat –

Eighteen years and four hours ago he had been standing in one of the rooms at the church, pacing.


End file.
